Betrayal
by katreeny
Summary: Kink meme de-anon. Poster wanted a time when siblings who are currently close in canon weren't. I went with Prussia and Germany, and the Preussenschlag.


He thought he'd been forgotten. Alone in a windowless cell, he'd shivered and starved through winter with no sounds beyond those made by the heavy shackles keeping him tethered to the wall, unable to move more than a handful of steps before the chains brought him short. Alone, in darkness, aware only of cement beneath his bare feet, cement walls under his hands, of his weakening body.

This had been his world since his government had been summarily dismissed.

He wasn't even sure who was behind this long, maddening imprisonment: he'd been dazed and hurting when he'd been attacked, and the beating that followed made sure he was in no condition to resist until long after the cell door had closed and locked – too far from the chains for him to reach. He was helpless as he'd rarely been in his long, long life, and his mind slid away from him as the pulse of his people faded and he starved.

How long had he been here? Months, certainly. He didn't think it had stretched to a year, not yet, but the dreams spun by a mind trapped in darkness and mostly silence were so much more attractive than the reality of cold, unforgiving cement, of darkness and quiet, of the thin, coarse linen clothing he'd been put in, clothing that was falling apart with constant wear. The filth and the stench he'd stopped noticing long ago because he could do nothing to escape it and nothing to clean himself. The weakness.

Boots on cement, one pair. One person, a crisp, even gait, powerful. Someone who knew where he was going and what he would do when he reached his destination.

He wondered if those boots meant he hadn't been forgotten after all, then if this was a good thing, before deciding that it likely wasn't.

Keys, a distinctive jangle of metal on metal, then the slightly different sound of a key in a lock, turning. His breathing quickened, and he closed his eyes tight. Whoever this was, they would have light and he had been so long in complete darkness.

The door creaked open and light flooded over him, painful even with his eyes squinted closed. A click, then even more light. He'd never known his prison had a light.

Then a voice, familiar and alien all at the same time. "Dear me. How the mighty Prussia has fallen."

#

He'd lost his mind, Prussia decided. That voice which sounded so much like his brother Germany could not be real – Germany didn't gloat, he didn't purr, and he certainly would never sound so delighted by his older brother's dire circumstances.

The smell of leather from gloved hands hauling him to his feet mingled with the heavier scent of sturdy denim, starch, and iron. The long starvation left him too weak to stand without support: he leaned against the body of this not-Germany, unable to resist his arms being drawn upwards, the chains to his shackles hooked over something.

His captor stepped back, leaving Prussia to lean against the wall to keep his weight from being held entirely by the shackles around his wrists.

"Look at me." Not-Germany's breath was too hot against his ear.

Defiant and proud he might be, and debatably mad into the bargain, but Prussia could tell when he was powerless, when it was better to comply without argument. He turned his head towards not-Germany, squinting against the harsh light.

Slowly, too slowly, his eyes adjusted to the blurred shape that stood beside him, letting it swim into focus. Black clothing, the style suggesting a uniform. A red armband with insignia that was supposed to be banned. Blond hair, slicked back. Strong face, familiar, but the eyes were wrong. Instead of the ice-blue of Germany's eyes, these eyes were blue behind a metallic sheen.

Senses dormant since his... arrest? Capture? Prussia wasn't sure what to call it, but that extra sense that told him when another of his kind was close had fully awakened, and was shrieking alarms into his mind. Pity it hadn't done that when his government had been dismissed.

Not-Germany's black-gloved hand caught his chin, tilted his head so he had to meet those wrong, wrong eyes. "You should be grateful," he murmured. "I could leave you here to fade. I could destroy you." A smile the real Germany would never have worn twisted his lips. "Instead I'm giving you a new life."

He didn't need to add that said life would be as his subordinate. Everything about him reeked of it.

"You will be my consultant, my strategist," he continued. "Once you and I are one, nothing will stop me."

So, perhaps Prussia was wrong, and he wasn't insane. In which case his brother – or this not-Germany who wore his brother's body but smelled of death and steel – was so far into madness he'd come out the other side into a twisted excuse for sanity that Prussia really didn't want to explore any further. "If you're trying to court me, you're going about it the wrong fucking way." His voice came out harsh, ragged with disuse.

The slap that snapped his head sideways into the cement wall was a complete shock. He knew Germany's temper, but his brother would never treat _him_ this way, and that perverse tenderness from this... this not-Germany had mislead him.

His knees buckled and he would have slumped against the wall with his wrists taking his whole weight if not-Germany hadn't held him upright. The familiar and wrong voice purred behind his ear. "Oh, I'm not courting you. We _will_ be unified when I leave this place: the only thing in question is how difficult you make it for yourself." The tone sent shivers running through his body.

"Treat me with the respect due your superior and I will do no more damage than necessary," not-Germany continued softly.

Prussia bit back a protest that he was nobody's subordinate. He wasn't suicidal. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he asked softly, "What _happened_? You're not... not acting like you normally would."

"No longer weak, you mean?" not-Germany asked with a sneer Prussia could hear in his voice. "I have a new boss, one who will lead my people to greatness." There was no sneering there, no cynicism. His voice rang with the certainty of belief.

"I've heard that one before," Prussia muttered. "Didn't work then, won't -" The fist that slammed into his gut drove the air from his lungs and silenced anything else he might have said.

For time he hung in his bonds, gasping, then not-Germany's voice rode over the pain. "Enough. I will not tolerate such disrespect from a subhuman."

 _A what?_ Prussia turned to stare at not-Germany, mouth open, too stunned for words.

That sneer, that contempt did not belong on his brother's face. "You, my brother, are defective. Inferior." Not-Germany gestured to Prussia's eyes, his hair. "Be thankful I am willing to overlook that."

Prussia glared at the stranger wearing his brother's body. "I found you dying on a fucking battlefield. I raised you and made you great, and _this_ is your idea of thanks? You can keep it." He turned away, braced himself for pain. It was better than contempt.

#

What felt like an eternity later, Prussia wondered if he should revise his opinion. Although Prussia had long since done away with torture, not-Germany was frightfully good at it: enough that Prussia now lay on the cement floor of his prison, his breath ragged and whimpering. It had taken all his pride and self control to choke back screams, to not beg not-Germany to stop the beating.

He didn't remember when he'd been taken down, although he was quite certain that mercy played no part in not-Germany's actions. Not with the number of times those fucking boots had found his ribs. Several of them were broken, along with most of the bones in his left hand – also courtesy the boots: fingers didn't stand much of a chance when they were crushed between a heavy boot and cement.

"I warned you." Not-Germany's voice seemed to fade in and out.

Prussia couldn't help hoping that he would pass out so he'd at least be unaware while he was conquered. He hadn't even lost a fucking war – he shouldn't be treated like this. He should have had a chance to fight for his people, his freedom.

The sound of thin cotton tearing, a sudden chill against his backside.

Prussia shuddered, teeth clenched around a sob of pain.

"I won't tolerate your insubordination."

It wasn't fucking insubordination when he was supposed to be Germany's equal, but this not-Germany wouldn't see it that way. Didn't see it that way.

Prussia closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He knew what was coming, knew it would hurt in ways being beaten couldn't match.

The invasion was as swift as it was brutal, his brother overwhelming his weakened defenses and claiming his vital regions even as his hands explored the rest of Prussia's lands, callused fingers – when had he taken the gloves off? – finding the scars of old battles, old defeats, probing and claiming, leaving nothing untouched. Each new incursion sent waves of pain through him as his weakened, battered body was driven into the concrete floor and he fought to hold back screams, even as his brother's invasion threatened to tear him open.

A hand curled around the Siegessaule, making Prussia's vital regions stir despite the pain. He shuddered and struggled to suppress any sound, anything that would show weakness to his conqueror despite knowing the battle was lost. He was defeated, betrayed by the one person he'd trusted, and in a way that hurt more than anything else.

He clung to the shreds of his pride, the determination that even beaten and taken Prussia would not submit. Prussia would fight by any means available, even if it was the tiny – and ultimately useless – gesture of not screaming, not begging.

That hand knew what it was doing. He could feel the Siegessaule rising, hardening beneath the rough pumping, the movement timed perfectly with each new thrust of the invasion. Prussia's body could not help but respond, even as he realized this was his fault. He'd taught his brother everything he knew, taught Germany conquest and rule and how to claim a nation and make them utterly his. He'd made Germany, and now he'd be destroyed by his creation.

"See?" That purring, wrong voice didn't show a hint of exertion where Prussia was gasping each time a new thrust drove him into the concrete floor and pushed the breath out of him. "Your body knows its master, subhuman."

Even if he'd been able to find breath to disagree, Prussia knew better than to argue now. It wouldn't get him anywhere.

Then German artillery pounded him into the concrete again and all he could do was try to breathe. And try to breathe.

When his brother's teeth drove into his shoulder so hard he cried out despite himself, Prussia realized there would be no recovery, no rising from the ashes of defeat. Blood and sex to bind a newly conquered territory and force their people to recognize the victor. It was old lore, all but forgotten. Prussia had told Germany so if – God forbid – it was ever used against him he would know not to blame himself, know he had no choice. He'd never thought Germany would use the knowledge to annex _him_.

Not when Prussia was already the backbone of Germany, the foundation that allowed Germany to be great.

Germany's teeth and tongue battered the wound, keeping it from healing. The pounding heavy artillery overwhelmed his vital regions, and the Siegessaule fell to the assault. Germany's presence surrounded him, absorbed him, taking everything that was Prussia and adding it to what was Germany, leaving him with nothing but the battered pride which refused to scream or beg or weep for everything he'd lost.

When his vision darkened there was a moment of hope that he might be granted the mercy of death, of never living to know how completely he'd been taken, then his connection to his people, his strength, trickled back to him along with a fainter sense of Germany's lands, an awareness that everything he had now, his people, even his life... all of it belonged to his brother and his brother could reclaim it as easily as he granted it.

Prussia had been conquered in the past, lost battles and wars, but never like this. He'd never been bound to another nation so completely that only his death or his conqueror's death could free him.

When, finally, Germany withdrew his forces, and said in that cold voice that wasn't his, "When you've recovered you'll be brought to my home," it was all Prussia could do to hold back his despair until the light clicked off and he heard the door closed and locked, leaving him to lie in blood and semen, too weak and injured to move.

Only then did he let tears fall, releasing shame, loss and betrayal in bitter salt water to run down his face and join the filth on the floor.

#

The humans who tended his injuries were efficient, professional, and treated him with less concern than they'd give a stray dog. Prussia heard more than a few muttered complaints about wasting valuable medical supplies on a subhuman like him. Still, they'd moved him from the lightless prison to a room that had an actual bed and a narrow window – barred, but he wasn't complaining – and only his right wrist was shackled.

Since he couldn't stand without assistance, he got the joys of a bedpan and attractive nurses who looked at him with ill-disguised disgust, but even that was an improvement.

If Prussia could have forgotten how he'd been conquered, he would have appreciated it more, maybe even tried to let his innate awesomeness overcome the stupid obsession with who was Aryan enough for the new boss. He couldn't. His brother's desires hemmed him in as firmly as prison walls, forcing him to behave the way Germany wanted.

By the time he was able to eat real food again – complete with grumbles from those pretty nurses about it being wasted on subhumans like him – he was almost relieved to be given over to a detachment of black-uniformed men to be taken to his brother. Almost.

His left hand still hadn't healed: the bones had been so badly damaged it was going to be a while before the splints came off and he could use that hand again. That arm was in a sling to keep him from moving the hand too much, but apart from that and the weakness that Prussia doubted he'd overcome while Germany held his leash, he was in decent enough shape. He'd fought battles in worse.

The uniformed men – all cut from the same beefy blue-eyed blond stamp – clearly saw him as nothing more than a prisoner to be transferred from one location to another. They obviously had orders to treat him well, but the glares made it clear they resented the fact and any misbehavior on his part would be met with brutal reprisal.

All things considered, Prussia figured he'd best save his strength for dealing with his brother, so he kept his mouth firmly shut and obeyed the curt orders.

They led him to a troop-carrier, grumbling that his injured hand meant that he couldn't climb into the back without help, and sat him between two of them. Both men smelled of beer and cigarette smoke, bringing Prussia fierce cravings for both.

Not that he was likely to get more than the smell, he reminded himself, using his bare feet to steady himself when the carrier lurched into motion. Judging by the way he was bounced on the wooden bench, this vehicle hadn't been new since the early twenties, and probably hadn't been maintained all that well either.

The complaints of the engine suggested as much, too. Obviously Prussia didn't rate a more modern vehicle.

With no way to tell where the troop-carrier was going, Prussia had to use the sound of the engine to brace himself for turns and the inevitable jolting when they hit streets that hadn't seen any resurfacing in years. He hoped this new boss who'd got his brother all wound up would see fit to catch up on what felt to his spine like public works delayed since the last damned war.

Then his next little prison cart trip would be less uncomfortable.

Then the wretched thing finally jolted to a stop, Prussia did his best to look indifferent despite the way his stomach was trying to leave his body via the soles of his feet. He did _not_ want to face what his brother had become.

Not that he had a choice.

He almost laughed – bitter, bitter laughter it would have been – when he realized he'd been brought to the back door of his brother's home. The back door, like a servant, when he'd fucking _built_ this house for Germany back in 1871, so his newly-empowered little brother would have his own home and not be sharing with Prussia.

The gracious brick mansion still looked good from the back, although the vegetable garden servants had once maintained was long gone along with the chicken run and the outbuildings that had once been normal for a place like this. Instead there was a lawn that was a little long, and his brother's beloved dogs running to bark their delight at visitors, tails wagging as they pushed against unpainted wood and wire fencing that looked like his brother had built it himself.

They reminded Prussia of his bird. He hoped the little fellow was safe and well somewhere far away, because it would suck to bring him here.

The back door opened, and his brother's voice – still too cold, but more like the man Prussia remembered – said, "You've brought him then? Good."

All four clicked their heels together and gave what Prussia very privately considered the most ridiculous excuse for a salute he'd ever seen: a stiff-armed thing that looked more like they were reaching for something than saluting. He didn't let his opinion reach his face, especially when they chorused, "Heil, Hitler."

 _Fuck_. So the fucking NSDAP bastards had taken control of Germany. No wonder his brother was being such a prick.

Germany returned the idiot salute and hail, then said to Prussia, "You, inside now. And wipe your feet."

#

The house hadn't changed too much since Prussia had last been there: it looked as though Germany hadn't done much beyond installing electric wiring for lights and appliances, and adding indoor plumbing. If any of the furniture had been replaced – not that Prussia could see much of it when he was marched from the back door to the kitchen and from there down the narrow staircase that led to the basement – the new items matched the old closely enough they looked like nothing had changed.

The basement _had_ changed. Not the wine cellar – which should probably have been called a beer cellar if one wanted accuracy – but the larder now served as a general pantry, the coal cellar had become a general storage room with a walk-out that apparently also held trash awaiting pick-up – although the coal bins appeared to be still in use. The fate of the root cellar was more disturbing: that had become a bedroom of sorts, furnished with a battered old wardrobe, an equally battered chest of drawers, a rudimentary shower and toilet cubicle that didn't even have the saving grace of a door, and a bed consisting of a single mattress on the floor.

The sight killed the faint hope Prussia had harbored that his brother would be more reasonable inside his own home. He clenched his teeth so he wouldn't say anything rash. Anything that would offend his brother.

"This will be your room. The lack of light should be less troublesome to your eyes."

Prussia wasn't sure why Germany bothered with that sop to a justification. Not that his brother was wrong: his eyes _did_ get tired after too long in bright sunlight, and they were weaker than was normal among nations. But he knew that had nothing to do with why Germany had chosen this as his room.

All he said was, "Thank you, brother." He even managed to keep sarcasm from his voice.

Germany didn't acknowledge the awesomeness of Prussia's efforts, he just gave a curt nod. "Can you wash and dress yourself without assistance?"

Prussia clenched his teeth harder and took a slow breath. He might not mean it to sound so insulting: he could just be asking if Prussia's hand had healed enough for that. "Yes, brother, I can." Keep it simple, he reminded himself. Report facts, don't let anything else into it.

He didn't need to be beaten to a pulp again, not when he was still healing from the last time.

"Very good." There wasn't anything Prussia could read from Germany's tone. "I've supplied you with clothing and necessities. Those -" he indicated the prison uniform Prussia wore. "- can go in the rag bin. I will see you in my office once you have washed and changed." He turned on his heel and left, leaving Prussia to lean against the wall and let out a shaky breath.

He closed the door, then inspected the clothing his dear brother had provided. That told him as much as the bare room did: he was a servant at best, more likely a slave. The clothing was all plain and functional, albeit higher quality than the prison uniform. Dark gray trousers, brown shirts, dark gray coats. No ties: servants didn't wear ties. The socks and underwear were just as plain, and just as anonymous, as were the shoes. It was all just well-made enough that he wouldn't stand out while – presumably – serving food to his brother's guests.

Prussia sighed, and started the tedious and time-consuming business of getting himself showered. Hopefully his brother would let his hand heal quickly, even if only so he could do more.

#

The only change Prussia could see in his brother's office was the addition of electric lights. They didn't help: the old desk and the shelves just looked shabby in the stark light. With sunlight or candles the room looked warm, but not like this.

He had to admit the harsher light matched what his brother had become.

Normally, Prussia would have marched in declaring his awesome presence had arrived, but that struck him as about as strategically advisable as invading Russia in January. So he stood in the doorway and gave a light knock with his good hand.

Germany looked up. That horrible metallic sheen was gone from his eyes, but he still looked harsh, cold. "Enter."

Prussia did. With his left arm in a sling, he couldn't stand to attention, but he got as close as he could. As long as Germany kept this at a military level, he might be able to endure it without doing anything stupid, at least until he could find a way out of this mess.

Germany studied him for a long moment. "Do you know why you are here?"

Prussia kept his gaze focused on the wall. Better that than to see what he feared his brother had become. "Beyond that you wanted me here, brother? No, I don't." Keeping his words neutral was hard work.

Germany folded his hands on the desk. "Adolf Hitler of the NSDAP is now my Chancellor. He wanted me to destroy you." A hint of emotion crept through there, but not enough for Prussia to recognize it. "You are... not Aryan, you see." Again, that odd little tremor in Germany's voice. "I... I convinced him that your knowledge and experience best serves me with you alive."

Prussia swallowed and tried not to let anything show on his face. What had the fucker done to his brother? There was something... He couldn't quite identify it, but something was wrong.

Germany took a slow breath before he spoke again. "My orders as regards you are that you obey me without question or hesitation; that you remain inside the house; that you place the welfare of my nation and my people above your own; and that you are to be treated as the subhuman you are." His voice wasn't steady, and he shifted a little in his chair.

Keeping an expressionless face was one of the hardest things Prussia had ever done in his long life. How in the name of all that was holy had Adolf fucking Hitler learned that he could control his nation the same way one nation could control another? He could see it now, that flash of anguish in his brother's eyes when he'd been startled into focusing on Germany's face.

The fucker must have nation blood in him: while their kind weren't _that_ fertile, they were capable of siring children, and those children could have children of their own. A pure-blood human could never control a nation this way, even as a boss, but one with enough nation blood could do it. It would, if Prussia remembered Germania's lessons on the topic correctly, drive the human insane – the bond ran both ways, and humans weren't able to handle the way nations were always aware of their people, their lands. The way their people and lands shaped them.

Germania had been quite emphatic that nations should not have sex with humans. Humans with nation blood had more charisma than normal humans, were more likely to become bosses, and also more likely to be completely barking mad. Better to spend thousands of years celibate than to dally with humans and risk that.

Prussia hadn't really understood the sex part back then, but he remembered the warnings. In many ways, being the Teutonic Knights had made it easier to follow Germania's advice – but not every nation did so.

"Do you understand?" Germany asked, his tone making it clear that he wasn't asking.

"Yes, brother." Prussia said only that. If he said anything more he'd get sarcastic, and he doubted Germany would respond well to any sarcasm from him.

"Good." Another slow intake of breath. Prussia could feel the edges of his brother's pain, feel how Germany hated having to do this. He locked the knowledge deep inside, where it could sustain him when being his brother's slave grew too much to endure. "In addition to providing respectful advice on policy matters, you will be cleaning and cooking once your hand heals. I expect you to treat any visitors with deference."

Prussia had to force himself not to grimace. He didn't bow and scrape to anyone – but now he was going to have to if he wanted to live.

Germany wasn't done. "I won't tolerate insubordination," he said. "You will behave yourself or you will suffer the consequences."

Consequences which were painfully clear, Prussia thought sourly. It was such a prissy way to tell him to do what Germany wanted or be beaten into the floor again. He had no illusions about his ability to fight his brother off: perhaps if he was at his peak, but now? Even without having been conquered as he had, he'd have no chance.

#

"East? You are not going back so eagerly, yes?"

Prussia didn't turn to Russia's voice: he didn't even pause in methodically folding clothes and setting them into an old cardboard box. "I don't have a choice, Russia. You know that."

He felt Russia approach: even now, with the damned wall no longer keeping East Germany separate from the rest of their nation, the bigger nation had an icy presence to him that scared the spit out of most of the rest of the world. "But I treated you so well." There was something like a pout in that. "Friends do not run from each other."

Not that Russia knew what friends where: the poor bastard was so twisted by his never-ending string of shitty bosses he thought he could beat someone into being friends. Now he had no idea why the client-states he'd forced to stay with him were leaving.

Not that Prussia would have left if he'd had the choice. Russia's madness was still an improvement on Germany's, and hell, Russia had if not known what was happening at least suspected it. He'd been in Berlin for the negotiations of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, and he'd asked Prussia a whole series of awkward questions: why was Prussia in the kitchen, why was Prussia not involved in the negotiations, why did Germany never mention his brother?

Prussia hadn't answered, but Russia must have guessed something because after the negotiations concluded and Russia departed with his humans Prussia had been punished for 'whining' to Russia about his treatment.

Later, it had been Russia who had taken them all from the house in Berlin: Poland, and the Baltics, and Ukraine, and Belarus, and Prussia himself. None of them could defy Germany's wishes then, but as time passed the others had been able to tell Russia some of it. They still had their lands: he didn't.

All Prussia said though, was, "He owns me. He calls, I have to go to him." Whether it meant his death or not. Prussia wasn't all that sure why Germany had allowed him to live this long: it had to be an embarrassment, Prussia masquerading as East Germany all these years.

Russia's arms wrapped around him, in something that might have been an embrace – if Russia had known how to give such things. "After everything he has done to you? Why are you being so loyal?" The hurt tone said that the real question was something different: why did nobody have such loyalty towards _Russia_.

Prussia folded the last of his shirts and set it in the box. "You remember how it was when the Horde ruled you, Russia? Before they split and he faded?"

The bigger nation froze for a moment, and Prussia gently slid out of the faux-embrace, and started packing the last of the things he was taking: comb, toothbrush, that sort of shit.

"He went that far?" Russia sounded horrified.

Prussia didn't care to know if the bigger nation was genuinely appalled or if he was pretending. He wasn't sure which he'd prefer, and he sure as hell didn't want anyone's pity. He hadn't protected Austria and Poland and the others to be a hero, hadn't taken the beatings and worse they'd have received so anyone could pity him. He'd done it because he was strong enough to endure it, because even after being betrayed like that he'd still protect his little brother from everything he could however he could.

It had been almost natural to do the same once he'd been taken to Russia's place. "Further." Prussia shrugged. "You were still Rus, not just part of the Horde." He picked up the box and turned to leave.

Russia shook his head. His hands clutched his scarf so tightly the knuckles were white. "You cannot be going back to that."

Prussia walked around him, something that wasn't a smile twisting his lips. "He's calling me back." There wasn't much else to it, really. Everything he was, everything he had, it all came from Germany. If his brother ever decided he had no need of Prussia, he would die. Without a nation of his own – and the German Democratic Republic had never been his, the way the people kept trying to get to the west was proof enough even without the fact that Prussia hadn't had a heartbeat since the Allies had finalized what the fucking Austrian with the stupid mustache had started. If he'd truly been East Germany, his heart would have beat with East Berlin.

He left his apartment – the standard allotment for a single person's residence: he'd refused anything better – without looking back. The few things he actually cared about were already packed, leaving only the box of clothing and toiletries.

Russia opened the door of his Trabant for him, and he set the box on the back seat beside the box that held the scarf Ukraine had knitted for him – in Prussian colors, no less – and the matching mittens Belarus had knitted one year. There was a carved eagle from Poland, a pressed cornflower Hungary had given him for Christmas ten years ago, the samovar and tea service Russia had given him when he'd moved from Russia's house to the apartment... All of them small things, but personal.

He nodded to Russia, who looked miserable. "If I can visit, I will."

Russia's mouth fell open. "You do not hate me?" he asked in an uncertain voice.

Their relationship, such as it was, was complex, but hate wasn't a word that could be used for it. "Of course not." Prussia let a little warmth into his voice. "I hate your fucking bosses and what they've done to you, not you."

It was enough that Russia stepped back, covering his eyes with his scarf. Poor bastard...

Prussia squashed the thought and marched around to the driver's side, settled himself in the car. Hopefully his brother wouldn't be too upset by the delay. It wasn't like he could just teleport himself to the other side of Berlin: that ability had gone with his heartbeat.

#

Crossing the border should have felt strange, but it didn't. It was all his brother's land anyway, and that was what Prussia's senses told him as he passed the now unmanned checkpoint and entered what wouldn't be West Germany for much longer. Soon it would all be Germany as it should have been for the last forty years.

The main roads hadn't changed that much: they might look completely different with new buildings intermingling with the ones that had been rebuilt after the war, but they were still the same streets, still going the same way. Traffic was a different matter: his brother's people were truly soldiers to face this much traffic on a daily basis.

Between the way his senses pushed him towards his brother and his memories of Berlin before the thirties, Prussia found his way to his brother's house without any mishaps. Things had changed there, too, with new houses on either side. It looked like there was less than an acre of the original grounds remaining, but the house was still recognizable.

The gardens were new, flower gardens left fallow for the winter, a frivolity the Germany of the war years would never have permitted. There'd been no gardens in the years Prussia had lived in the house.

The driveway had been cemented, and a new double garage attached to the house. Prussia drove carefully up the driveway, knowing how out of place his Trabant looked – he could have had the best model, updated yearly, but he'd refused and earned his car the same way his people did, working for years to save up enough to buy it, then going on the waiting list for the limited number of new vehicles available, and hell if he wasn't proud of that, and of maintaining it himself even as part of him wept inside for what his people had fallen to when _this_ was the pinnacle of East German engineering – and sure his brother's neighbors were peering through curtains to see who was visiting. Even meticulously maintained, a trabi engine was never quiet, and it certainly didn't purr the way Western cars did.

He slowed, downshifting to first gear – at low revs this particular model tended to stall in neutral – then stopping and shifting to neutral. He got the key turned before the engine could stall, engaged the parking brake. As always, the trabi shuddered a bit before stopping completely.

Prussia patted the dash. "Good girl," he murmured. "Awesome job." He honestly didn't know if it helped or not, but if personified nations existed, then why couldn't a car have a personality and appreciate someone being nice to it?

He sighed under his breath. There wasn't anything else he could do to delay the inevitable.

By the time he was out of the car, his brother had opened the front door and crossed the relatively short distance between the door and the car.

Prussia closed the car door, swallowed in a dry mouth, and turned to face Germany.

His brother stopped maybe two meters away. "Welcome home, brother."

Like this had ever been Prussia's home. His prison, yes, but not a home. "You're looking well," he said in the neutral, empty tone he'd used while he'd been here before. Not that it was a lie: Germany _did_ look well. He'd softened a little, enough to lose the wall of muscle effect without actually losing muscle tone. What Prussia supposed was western business wear helped – the kind of suit that had to have been tailored to fit so perfectly, crisp white shirt, tie sitting just so, and of course everything that went with it. Even with the strict, slicked-back style he preferred to force his hair into, Germany looked the image of a sharp, modern nation, one that wasn't going to disgrace anyone or plunge the world into a devastating war.

Prussia... He'd never admit it to anyone, but he knew time hadn't been kind to him. He was thinner than he should be, tired and faded, and his clothes were just as shabby. He supposed there was a kind of irony in the way the two of them so completely embodied the way the beaten-down, bankrupt East was meeting the prosperous, thriving West. That didn't mean he had to like it.

Germany winced, so slightly someone who didn't know him very well would never have seen it. "Thank you, I suppose." There was a hint of uncertainty, as though he wasn't sure what he should say. "Do you have much to unpack?"

Prussia shook his head. "Just a couple of boxes."

There was no mistaking it this time: Germany definitely looked pained. "No suitcase?"

Prussia shrugged. "It fell apart ten years ago, and since I didn't travel much I didn't bother to replace it."

Another of those infinitesimal winces. "I... see." Germany looked as though he wasn't sure what he should say. "Let's get those boxes inside, then we can sort out what to do next." It wasn't – quite – phrased as a question.

No amount of willpower could have kept Prussia from wondering just what was going through Germany's mind. He'd been called here, but the conversation was beyond awkward. Prussia supposed there weren't any books describing how one greeted the brother you'd destroyed after a forty-year estrangement. It wasn't the kind of thing that had much of an audience, after all.

He followed his brother into the house, carrying the box with the gifts from the Warsaw Pact nations.

The first thing he noticed was how much had changed. It looked like Germany had redone the entire interior. The dark wood paneling was gone, replaced by warm cream paint. The cornices and picture rail were painted dark green, and it looked like all the old portraits in the hall had been reframed with lighter, simpler designs that actually made the portraits look more alive.

The open door that had once led to the ballroom now showed a room with the largest television Prussia had ever seen. He couldn't see much else of the room: the angle was wrong and Germany led him on before pausing at a door which hadn't been there before.

That opened to a wide stairwell leading – fuck, down.

Prussia followed his brother down the stairs, trying not to think about what could happen, trying to stay as calm as the schooled, empty mask he'd worn for so many years. The door at the bottom opened, and Germany turned on lights.

Beyond... Prussia nearly dropped the box.

There was no trace of the basement he remembered. Instead he stood in a cozy den with another of those ridiculously large televisions on a wooden cabinet against one wall. Said wall was painted forest green, and... His eyes burned when he saw his old flags hung on the wall, framing his favorite portrait of Old Fritz, one that had been taken when the king was in his prime, before age and time had sapped his strength and weakened his body.

Several of his old swords had been mounted on the wall as well, displayed with the respect they deserved.

Prussia swallowed and made himself focus on the rest of the room. The polished wood floor. The low mahogany table and what looked like a very comfortable couch. The bookshelves. The books lining those shelves: all books he'd owned before the wars and loved.

Germany set the box of clothing on the table, and turned. He took the other box from Prussia's unresisting hands and set it on the table beside its partner. Cleared his throat. "Brother, I..." Swallowed. "God." A shudder ran through his body and he clenched his fists. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

Prussia couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but stare at Germany's tense body, at the tightly clenched fists, the too-bright blue eyes and the tears his brother was trying not to shed.

Germany drew in a harsh, gulping breath. "I know... I can't make it up to you... I'm not _allowed_ to make it up to you." The bitterness there was thick enough to cut.

It was almost amusing, Prussia found himself thinking. He should be the one who was bitter over having his country, his _name_ eliminated by a so-called rule. Instead, that resentment festered in his brother's soul, the brother who'd started the process by dismissing his government and forcing them to unify. That England would consider it a fucking war crime to restore Prussia's name was typical of the island nation: he might pretend to have given up his pirate ways and become the oh so English gentleman, but at heart England remained the vicious predator who'd brought down Spain's empire and broken Spain himself in the process.

Prussia had survived this in the past. He'd become the Teutonic Knights to escape the death of old Prussia, then become the Duchy of Prussia as the power of the knights faded. He'd chosen to place himself in Germany's shadow, to become subordinate to the brother he'd raised and trained. To let his brother be the unifier he'd been born to be, born first as the Holy Roman Empire, then reborn as Germany.

If he had to, he'd do it again, find himself an unwanted, lost people somewhere and claim them as his own. If he could embody a religious order, he could do that.

Germany's voice distracted him. "I never wanted any of it, brother." The threatened tears overflowed, were ignored. "That... _Austrian_ -"

Prussia had heard curses delivered with less venom.

"- I don't know how, but he forced me... and he knew if I tried to make things easier for you. Then he'd order me to do even worse."

Prussia realized his mouth had fallen open and closed it with a click of teeth meeting.

Germany shuddered again. "And... and then you took the blame..." He blinked a few times, sending more tears to run down his cheeks. "I couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop them." He scrubbed at his eyes with clenched fists. "Then Russia... and that _fucking_ wall..."

The two steps between Prussia and Germany seemed an impossible barrier. Prussia ached to comfort his brother, but stood frozen, unsure what to do, whether he _could_ do anything.

Another shudder, and another gulping intake of breath. "All I can do to make it up to you is to... reunify. Properly, I mean. As equals, sort of like the Italies."

Prussia swallowed in a mouth that was suddenly too dry.

"I won't... do that unless you agree." Germany's hands clenched so tight it looked like his knuckles might break the skin.

Now, finally, Prussia found his voice. "Brother, what gave you the idea that there was _any_ chance I would not agree?" He pushed himself forward, one step. Two. Tilted his head slightly to meet his brother's eyes. "I know what that fucker did to you. Knew from the day I arrived here." Slowly, unsure that it would be welcomed, he lifted his arms to embrace his brother.

Germany's arms wrapped around him, holding him close, so close it was hard to breathe.

"I'm sorry." Germany's whimper was so like when he'd been a small, fragile child.

Prussia reached up to ruffle his hair, the first real smile he'd worn in over fifty years stretching his lips. "I forgive you, little brother." He said only that, leaving unsaid that he'd never, despite everything, considered there was anything to forgive. Germany had done his boss's bidding, had his boss's will forced on him. He wasn't the first of their kind to suffer that fate, nor would he be the last, not while nations dallied with humans and occasionally spawned part-breed offspring.

Not while ambitious, half-crazy bastards tried to control what they didn't and couldn't own.

Germany's trembling slowly eased. Eventually, he stepped back, his eyes reddened and his nose dripping, but calmer now, more composed. "When... when did you want to do it?"

Prussia shrugged. "It won't be final until the bosses get their shit sorted out, and that's going to take a year at best." Then grinned. "Better if it's done and irreversible on our side before they can start arguing, hm?"

Germany's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, but his eyes were bright, and Prussia could see the happiness there. "Quite. If we wait for them to decide what to do with us we could be waiting years." He reached for Prussia's hand, relaxing a little more when Prussia took it without hesitation. "You'll like what I've done with your bedroom, I promise."

Prussia snorted and let his brother lead him. The years of control, of being what Germany's boss wanted him to be, those habits would take a while to fade, and he might never truly trust again. But the worst wounds of the betrayal, the bitterness and the hatred he'd fought to hold onto to protect himself, those were gone, and the rest, that would heal in time.

All things considered, it was the best reunion he could have hoped for.


End file.
